


athanasia

by kallliope



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, F/M, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-09 18:42:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14721525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kallliope/pseuds/kallliope
Summary: Hades and Persephone may have died, but their story lives on.





	1. pilgrimage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not, in any way, support Florence and Hozier in an actual relationship. This work was inspired off [this concept](http://kaafka.tumblr.com/post/173980948437/when-are-hozier-and-florence-going-to-give-us-that) and I put Florence and Hozier in this Hades and Persephone story because I believe their aesthetics and discographies best suit the pair. Please be respectful of all the people mentioned in this story.

_"I would love you in any shape,_

_in any world, with any past._

_Never doubt that."_

_**Claudia Gray** _

* * *

The town possessed plenty of flower shops, but the one on Harvest Way had plants practically bursting from the rooftop, while ivy crawled its walls like Nature personally blessed its foundations. It boasted two floors, one for the actual shop, the other for a cramped and cluttered apartment filled with gardening tools and new floral deliveries. An iron-wrought balcony jutted out from the second floor, nearly sagging under the weight of the greenery it held.

But no matter how many magical blossoms and houseplants the shop sold, the town always showed far more interest in its owners. Everyone recognized the shopkeepers from word of mouth before seeing them in person: the florist—who looked more movie star than town settler—and her redheaded flame of a daughter.  
  
“Hollywood scandal,” Liz proclaimed one day at the pub, wagging her finger. “Only that can make a good-looking woman like her come to a place like this and raise a kid.”  
  
At the end of the bar, Tyrone drunkenly scoffed. “You’re reaching too far, Liz. She’s obviously a trophy wife in exile.”  
  
“A trophy wife who’d get dirt in her fingernails?”  
  
Paula slammed her drink down. “All I know is that they don’t go to church. Says plenty for me.”  
  
“Not this again—”  
  
“Frankly, I like that.” Phil said, nodding solemnly. “You seen the girl’s hair? Red as sin. We can’t have that around on Sundays; no matter how many psalms she’ll recite, she’ll grow up a troublemaker.”  
  
“Like her mother,” someone snickered. When the pub turned to stare at him questioningly, the man only raised his hands in surrender. “What? I know nothing ‘bout the lady! It’s just in the hair difference. She’s got golden locks, while her girl’s got—”  
  
“Fire for a head.”  
  
“Hm, that’s right. What was the kid’s name again? It was some fancy ass city—”  
  
“Florence. Yeah. And her mother Stevie.”  
  
“Who names their kid after a city? And isn’t Stevie a boy’s name?”  
  
“Shit, who even knows with these Hollywood people.”  
  
The door to the pub creaked open, but the gossip continued to flow. Only when the man at the head of the group tapped the bar for attention did the chatter stop.  
  
“Four old-fashions and a Black ‘N Blacks.”  
  
The pub looked at the group from head to toe. Three women and two men, clothed in varying degrees of denim and cotton. Nothing too interesting, besides the fact that one of the women hid her eyes behind a pair of abnormally round sunglasses. But Friday nights always brought out the eccentricities in strangers, and the regulars soon went back to gossiping.  
  
“Budge your ass to let the travelers sit, Phil.” Liz griped, hands already busy taking glasses off the shelves. “Your mother would be weeping in her grave at your antics.”  
  
“But Liz, the seat’s for my date!”  
  
“You’ve been saying that for the past few hours. Next time, take a hint when you see it; now move.”  
  
Phil grumbled, but slid down the bar to let the five sit at the bar. Liz sized each of the strangers up once she finished and handed out each drink for the group. Three of the old-fashions went to the women. The first had a piercing stare and purple lips, complete with hair as black as midnight and a dark leather jacket swung loosely whenever she moved. The second, the shortest of the crew, sported a pile of locs that spilled artfully across her shoulders. When Liz set down her drink in front of her, the woman slowly took over her sunglasses, murmured a slow thank-you, and began to sip delicately at her drink, her brown fingers curling around the glass.  
  
“You staying here long?” Liz asked, turning to the third woman—Asian, short hair tied back in a mini ponytail.  
  
The third shrugged her shoulders, her eyes glittering mischievously. “Depends on you, I guess.”  
  
“Depends on what now—”  
  
“What Mits meant to say,” the man who ordered the drinks interrupted, shooting (Mits apparently) an exasperated glare. “was that we’re a band who’s interested in playing for crowds, and were wondering if you could let us play at your pub.”  
  
Mits stuck her tongue out at the man. “Sure, ruin the surprise for everyone, Jaymes.”  
  
Liz blinked, not missing the _y_ that stretched in the name as she slid Jaymes’ old-fashioned to him. “I…well. Isn’t there Issy’s club at the west side of town?”

“We tried that.” A soothing voice answered. “But apparently we look too boring for them.”  
  
Liz turned to the final member of the group and wondered why she didn’t pay attention sooner. She slowly gave the single Black N’ Blacks without breaking eye contact, careful not to spill a single drop.  
  
“You don’t look boring to me,” Liz said, drinking in the sight of the man. He was the tallest out of the group, taller than all the saplings she bought from the mysterious florist three days ago. His long dark hair spread like a shadow over a worn denim jacket, while a scarf wound itself haphazardly around his neck.  
  
The man laughed softly and Liz swore she heard robins chirping. “Well, thank you.”  
  
“Liz! Refill this, please?”  
  
Liz’s smile slid off her face and she breathed in for a few seconds before walking over to glare at Phil’s smirking face.  
  
“Thanks,” He drawled, eyes dancing with mirth. “You looked a little out of breath back there, so I did you a favor.”  
  
“I haven’t picked up anyone in months, you fucking ass.” Liz swore, swiping Phil’s empty glass from the bar and angrily pouring more bourbon in it. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t interrupt my game.”  
  
Phil leaned back, arching an eyebrow when he took a good look at the man she was about to flirt with. “What game? Liz, you couldn’t touch that with a five-foot pole; he’s on a whole other level.”  
  
Liz ground her teeth as she handed the glass back to him. “Watch me. Unlike you, I’m not someone who gets stood up easily.”  
  
She left Phil spluttering behind her as she sailed back to the group (band?), her service smile already plastered on her lips. “Everything alright?”  
  
“Yeah.” The purple-lipped woman said, her long fingers already playing with an empty glass. “Can you get me a dirty martini this time?”  
   
The tall man—Attractive Stranger, Liz decided, would better fit him—sighed. “Have some mercy on my poor wallet, Amy.”  
  
“It’s Friday,” Amy said, rolling her eyes. “If you’re looking for a better excuse, then I’m gonna think you’re underage, because you clearly don’t understand the rules of drinking, let alone a band leader treating his coworkers right.”

The woman with locs choked on her next sip of old-fashioned while Jaymes hid a snicker behind his hand. Attractive Stranger wilted, looking like a kicked puppy; Mits caught Liz’s indignant stare and winked at her knowingly.  
  
“Don’t worry. You should see us in the van.”  
  
“Who drives?” Liz asked, ignoring Mits’ glances and angling herself closer to Attractive Stranger.    
  
Attractive Stranger raised his head almost sheepishly. “I do. It’s chaos.”  
  
“Now that’s an outright lie.” The woman with the locs said, setting her glass back on the bar with a snap. “Hoz, don’t you remember when we switched the last twenty miles?”  
  
“If you call twenty miles five, Twigs.”  
  
Jaymes patted Hoz’s denim-covered shoulder sympathetically. “You were kind of out of it from financing, so you probably don’t remember any of that.”  
  
“Oh, right.” Hoz said, starting a slow nod. “Monday, right?”  
  
“Tuesday.”  
  
“Thanks, Mits.”  
  
“Anything for you, Twigs.”  
  
Liz cleared her throat, hoping for more information. “Your offer for pub playing still stands, but I’ll need more information. What do you all play?”  
  
The playful spark in Hoz’s eyes faded to something more serious. “Instrument-wise or genre-wise?”  
  
“Give me everything you’ve got.” Liz blurted out, desperate to hear Hoz speak again.     
  
Hoz began to list the band’s preferences (“We’re an indie soul group, but we can play blues or folk if you want.”), favorites (“Annie Lennox, Broadway, Cindi Lauper…we’re a whole mix.”) and the positions (“Amy, Twigs, and Mits—don’t ask, she just likes that better than Mitski—man the backup vocals and guitars, while Jaymes has the drums and keyboard.”)  
  
Liz latched onto the last comment, a not-so-subtle desperation in her voice. “What do you do?”  
  
“Me? Oh, I songwrite.”  
  
Jaymes snorted. “You humble sap. Don’t believe a word he says; he’s lead vocalist and guitar, as well as doing most of the songwriting, for some masochist reason.”  
  
“All of us work together for song sessions.” Hoz said with a shrug. “I can hardly take all the credit.”  
  
“And who obsesses over every lyric we made at two in the morning?” Mits said. “You sell yourself too short, Hoz.”  
  
Liz shook herself of the imagery of a sleep-deprived Hoz bent over a notebook, frantically jotting down lyrics as they flooded his mind. “And your pay?”  
  
Hoz’s spine straightened. For the next fifteen minutes, Liz haggled and tussled over pay rates with the dark-haired man, and she found herself all too glad when the group finished their drinks and began to amble out the pub. She looked down at the bar: all cash from Hoz’s wallet. Not at all what she expected to end up with for the night.  
  
Apparently disappointment was written across her face, because Amy gave her a pitiful glance before leaving the bar. “Sorry. He gets really oblivious or uninterested when it comes to these scenes. It’s usually both, so it’s not your fault.”  
  
Liz nodded slowly, still in shock at the contrast she saw between the soft voiced Hoz who laughed lightly with his bandmates and the sharp-eyed, straight laced Hoz who navigated finances as well as any New York banker.  
  
Phil slid back over to her, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. “So, did I mess up your game?”  
  
“Shut up and drink your bourbon.”

* * *

“You just missed another chance, you know that? At this rate, we’ll leave a string of broken hearts behind us instead of fans.”  
  
Hozier blinked, tearing his gaze from the ground to look at an exasperated Twigs.  
  
“What? The bartender?”  
  
“Yes, you big loser.” Mits said, jolting his shoulder. “She kept questioning us, but you most of all.”  
  
Hozier shook his head, letting his hair fall in front of his face. “She wasn’t interested. Didn’t you see how eager she was to shoo us out?”  
  
Twigs slowly dragged her manicured nails down her cheeks. “That’s because you get serious when it comes to finances!”  
  
“I have the right to, remember?”    
  
“Andrew Hozier-Bryne.” Twigs said slowly. “If you’re going to start with that pawnshop inheritance story one more time, you’ll be hearing from my lawyers.”  
  
Amy scoffed as they approached their battered grey van. “We can’t afford individual lawyers, let alone one.”  
  
“I don’t even know if the neighborhood’ll offer us one.” Mits said gloomily. “Didn’t you hear the nasty things they were saying about that florist? The town clearly runs on the rumor mill, and we’ve basically just dumped ourselves in front of them as fresh meat.”  
  
“Guys.” Jaymes said, waving his hands in a settle down gesture. “Let’s not do this, ok? It’s Friday night and we deserve a little break.”  
  
“ _He_ deserves a little break, if you know what I mean—”  
  
“Got it.” Hozier sighed, unlocking the van and sliding into the driver’s seat. “But there’s no time to date for me, not when the bankers have a death grip on the pawnshop’s debts.”  
  
“You’ll never know, Hoz.” Mits said cryptically, and gave him a grin when he stared at her through the rear-view mirror. “Now drive us back. I don’t want my ass freezing in the van all night.”  
  
Hozier slowly started to smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Message me on my [tumblr](http://kaafka.tumblr.com).


	2. jezebel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter the Scarlet Woman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Heavily implied abuse, both physical and emotional.

_"I must become a lion-hearted girl,_

_Ready for a fight,_

_Before I make the final sacrifice."_  
  
**_Florence + The Machine, Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up)_**

* * *

 Flo’s eyelashes fluttered as soon the sun began to peek over the rooftops of the town. After fifteen minutes to prepare, she walked down the rickety staircase that spiraled into the main shop, careful not to trip over her long hem. All last night—as Flo did every other night—she calculated her look to make herself seem exactly like a town oddity: large hat, a bulging wicker basket on her arm, and her mother’s old maxi dress hanging loosely on her thin frame, almost engulfing her in rolls of chiffon.  
  
People called her a witch’s daughter for years. Every day, Flo went out of her way to prove them right. _If we can’t stop the rumors, let them have something to talk about._  
  
Besides, maintaining a reputation was important fof business.

She heard the sound of pruners snipping as she walked toward the shop’s counter. Flo soon saw the familiar sight of her mother hunching over a flower pot.  
  
“Flo, pick up that bouquet over there and drop it off Mr. Harris’ house. His daughter’s not coming here today.”  
  
Flo walked to the corner her mother pointed to and lifted the bunch of tulips and baby’s breath into her arms, grunting a little at the weight. “Can’t imagine why.”  
  
Her mother sighed, setting down the pruners to look at Flo. “It won’t take long, you know. I’ll make your favorite dinner for the extra trip, since you’re skipping breakfast again.”  
  
“Yes, Stevie.” Flo answered, already starting towards the shop door and eager to get the day’s work done.  
  
“Wait!”  
  
Flo stopped instantly, recognizing the tone in her mother’s voice. That tone meant nothing good; the last time Stevie sounded like that, she ended up in bed for a week. She slowly pivoted on her heel, forcing her lips to split into a pale smile.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“You look…” Stevie waved her hands in the air, her eyes shining. She cleared her throat, trying to expel the emotion from her voice. “That’s my dress. Where’d you find it?”  
  
“Oh,” Flo said, trying to sound nonchalant and looking down at the florals that spread down to her feet. “I felt like wearing something vintage today. You don’t mind, do you?”  
  
Stevie shook her head vigorously. “No, of course not. You just reminded me of…someone I knew. Long time ago, doesn’t matter now. You look good in that.”  
  
Flo’s heart sank and she cursed herself for not having enough foresight. Of course her mother would get transported to a happier time if she saw Flo in her own dress.  
  
“I’m sure there’s no one else who looks like this,” Flo joked, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “No one in town’s got redder hair than I do.”  
  
Stevie laughed weakly. “Get going, Flo, before the customers start asking questions.”  
  
“Will do, Stevie.” Flo blew Stevie a kiss before pushing the shop door open with her hip. “And take Logan to the dance already!”  
  
She heard Stevie’s squawk of surprise before the door shut with its traditional jingle. Flo’s weak smile quickly fell off her face, and she exhaled slowly, shutting her eyes. That was close, too close to an episode. She’d have to take more precautions, especially with September a few months away.  
  
“Hey, kid! You miss your bedtime or something? Wake up!”  
  
Flo snapped her eyes open, but said nothing. Only a week ago, she vowed to Stevie they wouldn’t have any more trouble with the townspeople, and Flo never went back on a promise.  
  
She straightened the brim of her hat, shifted the flower pot in her hands, and walked resolutely toward her silver bike leaning on the shop wall.

* * *

Flo had mixed feelings about the town she lived in. Women who smelt of Wonderbread and baby powder whispered behind their hands whenever she biked past them. Married men and schoolboys eyed her hungrily, but more so after enough time passed for her to grow taller than her mother. She knew for a fact that Pastor Thomas warned his congregation to stay away from the flower shop every Sunday.  
  
But no other shop in town grew flowers as fast as Flo and Stevie did, so despite Pastor Thomas’ fire-and-brimstone tirades against them, the town went trekking reluctantly into their shop, while the church slipped them commission money when a funeral or wedding needed decoration. Stevie always got a good laugh from that, since both of them never attended a sermon in their lives. But ever since Flo heard about Pastor Thomas’ infamous sermons, she resolved to always make the church her first stop for deliveries.    
  
“Good morning, Pastor Thomas.” She called out with a grin, slowing her bike until she came to a stop two inches away from the pastor’s feet.  
  
He sniffed, steadily backing himself up to the church doors so his robes were nowhere near her bike tires. “Did you get the order right this time, girl?”  
  
“Yes, sir.” Flo said cheerfully, opening her large wicker basket. The pastor’s blue eyes widened as she dumped a riot of carnations and tiger lilies into his unsuspecting arms. “Think that should cover the altar arrangements for two weeks, shouldn’t it?”  
  
Pastor Thomas righted himself and delicately considered the bouquet, frowning at a carnation. “How did you manage to grow these? They don’t grow here until the summer.”  
  
Flo smiled and had half a mind to say _magic,_ but chose to go easy on the pastor’s nerves. “Stevie manages the humidity range for some of our exclusives. She’s really forward-thinking.”  
  
Her unsaid _unlike you_ hung in the air like a cloud, and the pastor’s frown grew. Flo silently waited for a holy lecture, but he simply reached into his robes and withdrew a familiar slip of paper.  
  
“Your mother, is she well?” He asked as he handed the check to her with reluctant hands.  
  
Flo suddenly felt sorry for the man, trying so hard to maintain propriety in front of the church. Early morning meant no usual flood of sermon-goers, but morning walkers left no chance for a secure exchange that the town wouldn’t know about.  
  
“Yes, she’s doing great. Kind of you to ask.” Flo replied. When the pastor made to nod and turn away, she spoke up again. “She’s constantly complaining of the repairs needed in the shop, though. Maybe you know someone in need of some money? Someone good with their hands, to fix ceilings and walls?”  
  
“I’ll ask around.” Pastor Thomas cautiously answered. His gaze flicked to her hair and Flo almost flinched at the grotesque fascination that formed in his eyes.  
  
She cleared her throat, propping her bike up. “Goodbye, Pastor.”  
  
As Flo biked away, heart beating faster with every pedal farther from the church, she quietly congratulated herself for making the church her first stop. Who knows what might happen if I stopped there by late twilight.  
  
Thankfully, she encountered no more surprises for the rest of her deliveries. Flo still remembered how only a few townspeople asked for personal deliveries the first month of Stevie’s Earthly Delights. People feigned indifference for anything new before steadily giving into curiosity. Now Flo biked on the roads every day, delivering flowers and plants for almost everyone in the neighborhood. Lately, Stevie started talked about making another shop in the city to expand their ever-growing customer list.  
  
But until then, Flo familiarized herself with the flower orders in their little town. The middle-aged woman in the mint green bathrobe always ordered a regular batch of peonies. A top hatted man bought sunflowers for his wife every other Wednesday, but switched them to poinsettias when the first winter snow came. She knew each order intimately and grew to predict each of their reactions, but Flo always loved to see the customers’ reactions when she handed over the flowers.  
   
“They look too plain for a dinner table, don’t you think?” Daniel, a doe-eyed widower of three, said, carefully inspecting the daffodils in her spring bouquet. “And besides, don’t daffodils mean  misfortune? I don’t think I need more of that.”  
  
“No, no,” Flo said soothingly. “You’re thinking of single daffodils. If you put them in a group, they mean joy or happiness.”  
  
Daniel visibly brightened. “Oh! Then that’s fine. How much do I owe you?”  
  
Flo accepted his payment with an easy smile.  
  
She couldn’t say the same for Mr. Harris.  
  
“What’s this?” he grumbled, snatching the pink freesias from her hands and looking at them suspiciously. “I didn’t order pink flowers for my wife. You must have gotten your orders mixed up again.”  
  
Flo resisted the urge to groan. Make one honest mistake, and the customers never made you forget it. “Your daughter told Stevie to make them pink, so she selected the freesias to—”  
  
“But did I order your mother to change the color?” Mr. Harris scoffed, glaring at her. She didn’t miss how he glanced at her hair accusingly.  “You’ve got a lot to learn.”  
  
Flo bristled, knowing he meant more than the flowers. “I only deliver, Mr. Harris. I don’t make the orders.”  
  
“Well, you’re doing a shit job at delivering then.” He snapped, slamming the door in her face and taking the flowers with him. Flo counted ten seconds before the mail slot opened and a bloated hand flung her pay at her feet.  
  
“Here, take it, take my money. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Well, I’ve had enough of it; from now on, I’ll order from the market stands instead.”  
  
Flo pinched her forehead as she picked up her money, ignoring Mr. Harris’ threats. She knew for a fact that he wouldn’t stop ordering; Earthly Delights resided much more closely to the Harris’ house than the market.  
  
Still doesn’t make this any easier.  
  
Once back on her bike, she pedaled away from the Harris house and soon crossed the bridge that separated the east and west side of town, humming Alanis Morissette’s _Ironic_ under her breath. The ducks in the river cried in alarm as she passed by, startled by the strange red blur kicking up a dust path behind it. Flo laughed as she heard the chorus of indignant honks behind her. Even the animals here called her trouble.    
  
Her smile soon vanished when she heard a grating voice call out to her.  
  
“Flo! Wanna give me a rose? I’ll pay you more than you’d ask!”  
  
Flo’s hands automatically threw her brake into place and she felt the bike shudder under her hands at the sudden change of speed. Every day, when Flo neared the pub, she usually slowed to see Liz at the front of the door, chatted as she handed her the usual order, and pedaled away after a few polite exchanges. But today, a group of boys surrounded the entrance with no Liz in sight. Flo squared her shoulders and prepared for the worst as she slowed to a stop in front of them.  
  
“Aw, look who’s tight-lipped.” One of them said, leaning lazily against the pub’s doorway. “Think you made her jittery, Roman.”  
  
Roman, the one who shouted at her, chuckled. “Redheads don’t scare that easily, dumbass. Besides, I like feisty ones. They’re a lot more fun.”  
  
Flo bit her tongue, feeling the odd taste of blood and unsaid vitriol flood her mouth. “Where’s Liz?”  
  
“Out.” Another boy replied, slowly pushing himself off the pub wall to take a closer look at her. Flo felt rather than saw how his eyes raked across her dress. “What’s with the curtains?”  
  
“I like it. What’s it to you?”  
  
The boy smirked. “Looks like you scrounged them from the dump.”  
  
The weak pettiness in his comment made Flo exhale, her smile already beginning to return. These boys weren’t any predatory priests or lecherous husbands; they were bored, alone, and needed something for amusement. She just happened to have the bad luck to run into them.    
  
“Liz!” She called, leaning her head back so she could project her voice to the second floor. “If you don’t come out in five seconds, I’m just going to assume that you’ll pick up your larkspurs at the shop.”  
  
A string of cursing, the banging of iron against the countertop, and soon Liz emerged from the pub door, wiping her flour-covered hands hastily on her cracked apron. She carried the acrid scent of fermented wheat in her hair and when she drew closer, Flo resisted the urge to cough.  
  
“I told the boys to handle it.” Liz grumbled, as she searched through her apron for the payment. “Didn’t my nephew have the money?”  
  
Flo looked over at the group of boys, who suddenly grew fascinated by the quartz chips in the sidewalk cement. She noted how Roman flinched when her gaze finally landed on him. Flo turned back to Liz, keeping her voice neutral. “I’m sure they did their best.”  
  
Liz clucked her tongue as she gave up her search for cash. “Hold on, I’ll get the checkbook. Roman, what made you so careless today? You usually have your wallet open and ready whenever you visit the city.”  
  
As soon as the pub door slammed shut again, Roman advanced towards her threateningly. “What the hell was that?”  
  
Flo gazed at him underneath the brim of her hat, regarding the two-feet difference between them. “I’m not sure what you mean.”  
  
“You know exactly what you did, and now I’m going to pay for something I didn’t even do—”  
  
“So you admit you never paid me money.” Flo finished, nodding sagely. “At least I can agree with you on that.”  
  
“You know damn well that’s not what I meant.”  
  
“Then explain.” Flo said, turning back to the pub door, open and swinging again. “I’m sure your aunt would love to hear it.”  
  
“Hear what?” Liz asked, clapping a large and callused hand on Roman’s shoulder as she exited the pub. “Oh, how you managed to snag that music deal you always wanted?”  
  
Flo flushed and ducked her head. If Liz knew about her audition, the whole town knew. “You know I failed that, Liz.”  
  
“Too little faith, Flo! Your voice could shake the mortar from every house if you wanted to. And one failure doesn’t equal impossibility; what’s the point of even declaring something impossible when you don’t try again?”  
  
Flo gazed at Liz solemnly, until the other woman’s face fell.  
  
“You’re really not trying again?”  
  
In her mind, Flo knew Liz only wanted the best for her, knew she saw Flo as a sister she never had. But the disappointment in Liz’s voice made Flo want to vomit last night's pie on her feet.  
  
(“Flo, you haven’t finished your dessert. I made it special; don’t you like it?”  
  
“I’m full.”  
  
“No, you’re not.”  
  
“Stevie, I’ll get sick.”  
  
“Eat.”)  
  
“I can’t leave my mother.” Flo said firmly. “She needs someone to care for her and help her with the business. And she’ll never let me leave.”  
Liz opened, then closed her mouth, face quickly morphing into someone who struggled to find the right answer to an awkward situation. Flo knew that face painfully well. Behind his aunt, Roman bit his lip to stop his snickers from escaping.  
  
“Enjoy the larkspurs, Liz.” Flo said, getting back on her bike. “Let me know if you need anything else.”  
  
She felt about five pairs of eyes burning into her back as she pedaled away, but she refused to glance back until she rounded the corner.

* * *

When she finally finished the day’s deliveries, Flo entered the shop to find her mother sitting at the countertop, staring deep into a steaming mug of tea.  
  
“Stevie.”  
  
Stevie shook herself, tearing her gaze away from her mug to look at Flo. “Oh. You’re back late. Did Mr. Harris give you a hard time?”  
  
Flo ignored the disinterested tone in Stevie’s voice and only shrugged, setting her empty basket on the nearest shelf. “He was acting the same as usual. Cranky. Needing sleep. Griping about how he needed to pay us for the flowers. Did his daughter not ask for pink freesias or did I dream that up?”  
  
Stevie sipped at her tea—green, from the sharp smell surrounding her. “Mm, I think so. So what took you so long, then?”  
  
Flo sighed. There was no hiding things from her mother. “It was Liz, really. She held me up at the pub longer than I expected.”  
  
“What’d she say?”  
  
Flo’s fingers trembled as she plucked the hat from her head. “She asked me about my audition again. Don’t worry: this time, I think I finally got her off my back about it. Did Logan call you yet?”  
  
For a few terrifying minutes, Flo only heard absolute silence from the countertop. Then the shop bell chimed, signaling the presence of a new customer.  
  
Stevie’s voice took on an unnaturally cheery quality, the one that signaled imminent turmoil. “Welcome to Earthly Delights. How can I help you?”  
  
Flo hurriedly retreated to the storage room, picking her way through the clutter of bird cages and abandoned vases they collected over the years. When she finally stopped in front of the full mirror —bought at a flea market months before—she shed Stevie’s maxi dress for her frayed and dirt stained work clothes.  
  
Stevie called her silly when she did it, but Flo liked seeing the transformation from witch’s daughter to the version of herself that she refused to let the town see. She managed to tie her hair into a tight bun before Stevie appeared behind her in the mirror. Flo saw the hard look in her mother’s brown eyes, but refused to look away.  
  
“I didn’t call him.” Stevie finally said, tucking Flo’s loose strands behind her ears. “And Logan didn’t call either, last night. I probably scared him off after our last meeting.”  
  
Flo tried not to sound too alarmed. “How?”  
  
“He didn’t know about you until I told him I had a daughter. You should have seen it; he spit his latte all across the floor. He thought I was your sister.”  
  
Flo swallowed, picking uneasily at a hole in her jeans. “And?”  
  
Stevie shook her head, settling her hands on Flo’s shoulders. “And what? That’s it. We parted ways. You expected anything else?”  
  
“No.” _Yes._ “What did he say?”  
  
Stevie’s lips turned thin. “Nothing that needs repeating, believe me.”  
   
For a few moments, mother and daughter stared at each other through the mirror. Flo felt her stomach lurch when her eyes caught on the fading bruises on Stevie’s neck—bruises too big and too violent for Logan’s hands, or any man in town. The shape of the bruises looked hauntingly familiar, something which made Flo instantly realize who delivered them. She narrowed her eyes and stared hard at her mother. Stevie only shook her head and pulled at her collar so the cotton could hide the violent quilt of black and blue on her skin.  
  
“You’re sure you made Liz to forget about it?” she asked, her voice low.  
  
“Yes.” Flo said, finally answering after a highly charged silence. “She won’t ask again, Mother.”  
  
Stevie held Flo’s gaze in the mirror for a few more seconds before she released her shoulders and accepted the lie as truth. “There’s my good girl.”  
  
Flo nodded mutely, rubbing her arms. Stevie bustled back to the countertop, rolling up the black sleeves of her dress and Flo watched the late afternoon light play off her mother’s thin arms.  
  
“Now, do you mind plucking the hyacinths? We got that a whole batch of bluebell seeds from Cali, and I’ve been itching to plant them for a while…”  
   
“On it.” Flo replied, her hands mechanically pulling on the gardening gloves from her jeans. “You want me to water the crocuses too?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
_This is your favorite part of the day,_ Flo recited in her head as she trekked into the back garden, tool box in hand. _You’ve no reason to get upset. You pretended to be Emily Dickinson gardening when you were younger, for God’s sake._  
  
When she found the hyacinths—only two rows away from the crocuses—Flo sunk to her knees, setting the box aside to inspect the flowers. They all looked too young for plucking, too delicate. The rich smell of earth that surrounded the garden, something she usually loved, clogged her nostrils and made her dizzy.  
  
Flo slowly unlatched the tool box and drew out her own pair of pruners. Not as big as her mother’s but with sharper blades that winked and gleamed with deadly beauty. In a swift blur of silver, she cut the nearest cluster of white hyacinths and watched them fall to the ground, a drop of snow in spring.  
  
_You survive so much worse every day; why get sad over a bunch of stupid flowers?_  
  
Flo bit her lip as she continued down the dirt row. The next bunch of hyacinths swayed when she drew closer to it, as if it knew the danger it faced. She snapped its stem in two and watched it fall into the dirt.    
  
_Don’t you enjoy this? Didn’t you beg to garden whenever you saw Stevie in the backyard of the Colorado house?_  
  
The crocuses drank salty tears instead of their usual flood of tap water.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a [moodboard](http://kaafka.tumblr.com/post/174058002467/moodboard-modern-day-hades-and-persephone-x) for the story I've planned out. 
> 
> Come message me on [tumblr](http://kaafka.tumblr.com).


	3. solomon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A closer look at the enigmatic Hozier and his bandmates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for: social anxiety, mild panic attack.

_"A poet by nature never double-deals:_

_his art, his calling, shapes the way he feels."_

_**Ovid, The Art of Love** _

* * *

“That’s a B flat, go sharper.”

“Nah, it’ll make the song sound more artificial.” Mits muttered, gnawing at her pencil. “Hey, Hoz, play us a C sharp?”

Hoz obediently strummed the new chord. Four voices began to talk at once.

“See, that’s way too clean. Tell me you hear a single unfiltered thing there.”

“None, 'cause it sounds _professional_. That’ll attract more listeners.”

“A slightly larger audience for the sake of our image?” Twigs asked incredulously. “What happened to your devotion to natural sound, Young?”

Amy cleared her throat. “He’s got a point, you know. These people pay attention to everything in their lives; they’re going to focus on us once we’re on that stage.”

“Yeah, but to completely revamp our style—!”

Hoz stared out the window of their cramped motel room, strumming the chords for Vance Joy’s _Riptide_ absentmindedly. Outside, the streets bustled with the sound of harried workers itching to get home and the faint toll of the church bell. Hoz counted four chimes before the bells stopped and did the math; four chimes for every hour his band went over their planned gig at Liz’s pub. He quietly thought it amazing that his friends managed to wrangle a schedule from Liz, not even three days after their first arrival.

“She looked almost murderous when she opened the door.” Mits replied, when they asked her how the arrangement with Liz went. “Definitely not a morning person, but she finally agreed for tonight at ten, and that’s all that matters.”

“Anything else?”

Mits had smirked. “Well, she invited us to stay and drink once we finished performing. Think she’s willing to forgive Hoz’s little transgression to try again?”

At that, Hoz had tried to throw a dusty magazine at Mits’ head, which she'd easily dodged.

The band then fussed over the song sequences, and when they finished that, they debated over their instruments and outfits (“First impressions are important.” Twigs declared, glaring at Amy, who suggested driving up to the mall to buy skin-tight leather). They finally got to fine-tuning the songs only after breaking open all their suitcases and trying to figure out how the outlets in the room worked. (“Fuck, the plug holes here are farther than our own.” / “Which means they’ll be the same at Liz’s. Anyone got enough on them for amp plugs?”)

Hoz sipped at his tea as he watched his friends debate hotly over changing an ambiguous lyric. Success stories be damned; he liked the unconventional way the band worked, the way the prep felt like the raw makings of a school group project instead of a highly polished performance. Nowhere else did he have the freedom to run to the pharmacy for amp plugs or order room service for five when it grew clear none of them remembered to eat breakfast. It was a great contrast to the low, controlled ambience of a pawnshop back home, the dust settling over finely shaped mannequins dripping with diamonds. 

He liked the way they organized every musical detail, yet managed to make a mess of their single room in their first night. Just from one glance around the room, Hoz spotted Amy’s eye shadow palette sitting next to Jaymes’ headphones on the night stand, while his guitars made their home on the same hat rack as Twigs’ statement t-shirts. He still wasn’t sure where Jaymes hid his drumsticks and how Mits managed to nick the shampoo from the other rooms, but he refused to dwell too much on that.

Most of all, Hoz appreciated how the band didn’t feel the need to press him for constant input. He preferred to talk only when needed and chose to stay silent in the clubs or coffee shops where they performed. Twigs said it was a genius tactic to help draw curious listeners to them. Jaymes urged him to buy more cologne to add more intrigue with the dark and mysterious stranger look. Hoz wondered when one of them would eventually realize that his so-called image came from social anxiety.

Suddenly, he felt all eyes on him and he set his mug down. Hoz shook his head to rid himself of the daydreams and slowly turned to face his friends.

“Mits wanted to know what song you wanted first.” Amy said, pointing at the list of pen marked songs they'd piled on the mattress.

Hoz's eyes crinkled and he ran a finger across his dark beard. “How about we open up with Going Down? It’s on that border that separates the dark from the sweet. People love contradictions.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jaymes nodded. “And then we’ll go off with Midnight Rain, right? Give them a little jump.”

“Sometimes, Jaymes, I don’t think you realize the power you hold as manager and band member.”

“Oh, I know. Believe me, I know.”

After another hour, Hoz stopped rehearsal for a mandatory break. Amy and Mits practically tumbled over each other for second mattress rights, while Twigs started her daily stretching exercises. Jaymes leaned down to shove his feet into a pair of battered sneakers—probably Amy's, but they looked too worn to tell.

“You planning to negotiate again?” Hoz asked, sliding off the mattress. He winced when he heard a few hip bones pop. “It’s been, what, nine times now?”

“Yeah, let Hoz try.” Twigs called from the floor. “He can bargain his way out of hell if he wanted to.”

Hoz smiled as he remembered his first meeting with Twigs, her sweeping strides into the pawn shop and a statement, not a question, on her lips.

(“I hear you’re interested in singing.”)

Jaymes shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt to try a tenth. And if I’m late, then I’m on a walk.”

“Don’t come back!” Amy yelled at his retreating figure. Jaymes flipped her off without looking and made a beeline for the motel owner’s apartment.

Mits leaned her head over the mattress, watching Jaymes walk down. “He’s right to try again, though. It isn’t fair for the motel owner to put us all in one room at these prices.”

“Reminds me of the Omaha place.” Twigs piped up, her feet now propped around her waist in a bizarre twist. “But it’s not like we haven’t slept in worse. Remember the van nights?”

All four of them cringed as memories of cheap liquor, dirty blankets, and vomit-stained sheet music hit them.

“Yeah, definitely slept worse.” Amy said, shuddering. “Couldn’t play for weeks without finding my things in questionable places.”

Hoz nodded and ambled over to the corner of the room where three large Doberman Pinschers snoozed in the afternoon sunlight. He scratched at their ears before reaching out on the tiny kitchen table for the kibble bag. Not even five seconds after he opened the bag, Hoz felt three pairs of paws batting at his sweat pants.

Mits groaned. “Great going, Hoz. Now they’ll whine at the door until we get back from the pub.”

“Let the man live, girl.” Twigs said. “Though I’m still wondering how he managed to name them all Spot and not get confused between them.” 

“Hey,” Hoz said, sprinkling dog food in three different sized bowls. “I like Cerberus. It’s a nice name.”

“Yeah, and in Latin that means Spot. Don’t think I don’t see your loopholes.”

“Greek.”

“I can’t believe I’m living with a loser, oh my go—”

Amy rolled over the mattress to stare at the Cerberuses. “And I’m assuming the fact that black’s your favorite color was purely coincidental.”

Hozier looked down at his three dogs, each one with a pristine black pelt. “Yeah.”

“Wow, the audacity of this man, to lie in front of his bandmates’ faces—”

The motel door slammed open again and Jaymes brushed through, cheeks red and hands trembling. Hoz silently handed him a water bottle, which Jaymes accepted with a small nod before chugging half of it down in one shot.

Mits arched an eyebrow. “Did the motel owner threaten to burn the van down or something?”

Jaymes wiped a few drops of water off his chin. “He’s not giving us complimentary food anymore. Says we probably wiped his tables clean with our appetites.”

“Crap,” Amy exclaimed, sitting up. “We can’t eat out all three courses on a daily basis; our wallets’ll gather more dust than coin.”

“Hoz, when’s the next check from the pawnshop coming again?” Mits asked sharply.

Hoz frowned, scratching Cerberus the First’s ears. “Three weeks from now.”

Jaymes sighed as he ran a hand through his hair. “Guess from now on we’re going to have to make our own meals.”

All five of them exchanged glances. The last time one of them tried to cook, they had to call the fire department from an Oregon forest.

“Well,” Twigs said, straightening herself out from a vicious cobra pose. “Let’s hope Liz’ll give us meals every time we play.”

* * *

Hoz felt, rather than saw, the sudden attention from the patrons when they walked into the pub with their gear tucked under their arms. He tried to stay calm, but the eyes of the townspeople unsettled him, as well as the whispers that sprung up as they weaved their way to the makeshift stage Mits set up with Liz the day before. The pub soon sounded like a boiling tea kettle with so many hisses flavoring the air.

Liz, dark-haired and charming, waved when she saw them. When Hoz nodded at her from the stage, her smile seemed to grow the tiniest bit bigger.

Mits slapped at his arm. “If you don’t see how gone she is, you’re a bigger idiot than I ever thought.”

“I’m not stupid.” Hoz grumbled, unlatching his guitar case and taking out his pick. “I’m just uninterested. Besides, why would I start something with her when I’ll have to leave in a couple of weeks?”

Mits shrugged as Hoz strummed his strings experimentally. “There’s always one-night stands.”

The guitar pick slipped between Hoz’s fingers and he swore under his breath. Mits smirked. _Thank God we're not in front of the mics yet._

Before Hoz could bend down (something which Hoz suspected Mits planned), Twigs swooped to the floor in a whirl of ivory and held up his pick with a polished smile. When she leaned in closer, the smile faded, and she whispered, “If I have to listen to you two squabbling one more time, I’m going to gouge this in places you really don’t want.”

Hoz felt his blood turn cold and he resisted the urge to shiver. Dark and mysterious atmosphere he supposedly had, but what Twigs had was the real thing—an aura of power, an air of touch-me-and-you’ll-bleed.  

“Yes, ma’am.” Mits squeaked, hurrying to her mic stand and fastening on her guitar at the same time.

Twigs turned to Hoz, her brown eyes serious as she dropped the pick in his large hand. “Take it; you want and need this. Don’t let go.”

Hoz curled his callused fingers around the pick, knowing she meant more than she said. “Thank you.”

She nodded before walking to her position in the back, leaving Hoz alone in center stage. He tentatively tapped the mic in front of him and an eerie hush suddenly settled over the pub, as if a someone sucked all the noise out to leave a tense silence behind.

Hoz cleared his throat. “Hello, we’re the Underworlders. Before we play for you, we want to give a special thanks to Liz Grailen for giving us this chance to perform at her place and, from what I learned, for making the best Black N’Blacks I’ve had on the road so far.”

Some of the regulars hooted or raised their glasses in appreciation. Hoz started to smile, ignoring the butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

“Without further ado, here’s our newest song; it’s called Going Down.”

* * *

Twelve songs later, Hoz walked to the bar on shaky legs, his ears ringing from the murmurs that surrounded him. Performing always left an impact on him, but the sudden roar of noise from so many people left him speechless. Consequently, he felt two seconds away from throwing up, screaming, or taking refuge in the van. His anxiety told him preferably all three.  

“Whiskey on the rocks, please.”

Jaymes made a noise of disapproval behind him as Liz poured out Hoz’s drink. “You’re not going to love your head in the morning.”

“Think I deserve the right to forget what happened.” Hoz muttered, throwing back the whiskey as soon as Liz slid his glass across the bar.

Liz frowned at him. “What do you mean? They all loved it!”

Hoz looked out at the crowd and found more people blatantly staring at him with varying expressions of admiration to disgust on their faces. “ _Loved_ seems too complimentary from what I see.”

“Look.” Twigs said soothingly, sliding into the seat next to him. “We played our songs and we didn’t get tomatoes chucked at us. That’s something to celebrate, not to drink and forget.”

“Mm.” Hoz replied, fixated on how the bar twinkled and gleamed under the lamp lights. “Think we overshot our chances here, though.”

“Well, I think you did fine.” Liz replied with a cheerful grin. “And just for doing so well, I’m treating you five to my special cooked ribs.”

Four out of five band members yelled appreciatively. Hoz just gave a slow nod, still half-lost in his thoughts. As Liz turned to face some new customers, Hoz eyed the dark curls in her hair, noticed how her lips looked like budding primroses under the dim pub lights. She looked nice. He suddenly felt a pang of guilt when he thought about the purely indifferent feelings he had towards her.

“Talk to her.”

Hoz counted to three before turning to Amy, whose head invaded half of his personal space.

“About what?” He asked calmly. “That I’d break her heart in about three weeks? That I feel sorry for making her dress up when I’m only focused on music at the moment?”

Amy exhaled in frustration. “You can’t say that if you’re not going to even try, dumbass.”

Hoz stared at the bottom of his glass, contemplating the benefits of hiding out in the bathroom until most of the pub goers left.

“Hoz, I know you're stalling. You can’t fool me with that chill and tranquil hippie image you’ve done your whole life.”

“Who’s saying I’m fooling anyone?”

“You’re not happy.” Amy said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Ever since you left New York, you’ve never been really satisfied. You deserve a chance to be happy now.”

Hoz set down his glass with a sigh. “I’ve been happier here than there. Isn’t that enough?”

Amy looked at him for a few seconds before she realized Hoz showed no signs of changing his mind. She slowly shook her head. “No. No, I don’t think it is.”

She slid off her seat to find Jaymes, but kept glancing back at him with a knowing gleam in her eyes. 

 _Yes, I’m unhappy._ Hoz thought. _I’m unhappy, tired, and nearly three decades years old without any real achievement. Most of all, I’m unhappy because I’m lonely. And the only thing to solve that is to have something that’s never going to be permanent._

He looked at Liz tottering a tray of bourbons across the pub. When she caught his eye, she held up a finger and mouthed out a quick ‘be right there.’

Hoz nodded, already feeling the anxiety welling up in his stomach. He tapped the bar nervously and by the time Liz sauntered her way up to him with a swing in her hips, Hoz wanted nothing else but to escape to the van.

“You look alone.” Liz stated frankly. “Want some company besides that whiskey?”

Hoz opened his mouth to say yes actually, he wanted to go back to the motel and play with the Cerberuses, but Amy took that moment to look over Twigs’ shoulder and level a deadly glare at him. Hoz bit the inside of his cheek and forced himself to sit still.

“That’d be nice.”

Liz’s eyes lit up like someone put sparklers behind them. “Fantastic; I needed a break anyways.”

She hopped up onto the empty seat to his right, discreetly tucking a few stray hairs behind her ear. Hoz fiddled with the rings on his hand, trying not to look too out of depth.

“So,” Liz drawled. “Still riding that after-concert high?”

Hoz leaned back in his seat to see Jaymes taking shots with a steadily growing crowd around him, Twigs doing a bizarre twist with Mits, and Amy calmly rejecting the third man who asked her if she wanted to dance.

“Think my bandmates got that covered.”

“Mmm, looks like it.” Liz said, trailing her gaze across Hoz’s figure and resting on the glass in his hand. “Don’t want to join them?”

Hoz slowly shook his head, letting a few strands of his hair fall into his eyes. “’M not really a social person.” 

“Could have fooled me. Your stage presence nearly filled the whole pub.” Liz ran her fingers across the polished bar. “And it shows, you know. The last time I’ve seen this many residents here on one night was when the Carnival passed through here two years ago.”

“How many days did they stay?”

Liz smirked. “One. Think we scared them off with our gossip.”

Hoz managed a small smile. “I don’t think you’ll get rid of us that easily.”

“Oh, I hope not.” Liz responded with a blinding grin. “You’re bringing me coin from all over the town; that’s the kind of thing that’ll get you in people’s good books.”

At this, Hoz uneasily shifted his gaze to Liz’s ears. She noticed the change immediately and flushed red.

“There’s something in my hair, isn’t there.”

“No, no.” Hoz said, turning his eyes back to Liz's face. “It’s a bad habit I picked up in New York. I just can’t do eye contact whenever I talk with someone.”

Liz raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows. “Huh. Even with your bandmates?”

“Even with them.” Hoz confirmed. “My friends got used to it, so it’s not a big deal. It’s only when I talk to strangers that it grows into a problem.”

“Well,” Liz replied, leaning forward. “I’m here and I'm not irritated by your habits.”

Hoz let his gaze fall on one of his gold rings. “I don't think that counts. I wouldn’t call myself your friend just _yet,_ but I think it’s safe to say you’re out of stranger territory.”

“You're a charmer, aren't you?“

“Don't hold your breath on that. I've been told I'm more of a menace.” Hoz warned.

“I'm not worried about getting the wrong impression; that’s what I’m planning to change after knowing you more, anyway.”

Hoz only just prevented himself from sighing. He admittedly admired Liz’s determination, but simultaneously guilt gnawed at his stomach for not even entertaining the notion of forming something with her. _Wish the Cerberuses were here right now._

“So!” Liz declared, flipping her dark hair over her bare shoulder. “What’s this I hear about New York? You didn’t announce that to the pub before you performed, but Amy mentioned you were in a pawnshop? What’d you do there?”

Sheer panic closed up Hoz’s throat and he pressed his lips together, biting his tongue until he tasted blood on the roof of his mouth. Liz saw the abrupt change and paled, immediately beginning to stammer out an apology, but Hoz heard nothing besides the calm buzz of conversation from the pub goers.

“Hoz. Hoz! Can you hear me?”

Hoz blinked, seeing Amy’s worried face slowly materialize in front of him. The buzz around him grew louder and in the distance, he heard the sound of a hysterical Liz.

“He said something about New York and I asked him what he did there, and he just went into this trance—”

“Hey.” Two hands landed on his shoulders and Hoz vaguely recognized the low rumble of Jaymes’ voice. “Let’s get out of here, huh? The night’s getting late.”

Hoz nodded slowly and felt his feet move, carrying him across the pub floor in a few strides. A hand that looked like Twigs’ pushed open the door and the air that blew in tasted wilder, more sweet.

“Give me the keys, Amy.”

“Excuse me? I spent the whole time not drinking a drop while you chugged back six shots. You’ll turn into a murderer if you try to drive us back in that state. Now get in the car.”

“Bossy.”

“Guys, there’s a time and a place.” Hoz sensed someone rubbing his shoulders and caught the faint scent of cardamom in the air—Mits. “Let’s just hope they didn’t fall asleep already.”

“Them? Falling asleep when Hoz arrives? What kind of fairy tale did you read tonight?”

The sound of tires squealing echoed in Hoz’s mind and as the van tore down the roads, he swayed with every curve Amy swept through. He barely realized the ground stopped shaking before he felt someone—two someones—hauling him out of the car and carrying him by both arms.

“Here we go.” Jaymes unlocked the door to the dusty motel room. It swung open with a resounding creak that sounded like a gunshot in the dark. The pale moonlight from outside streaked into the room, illuminating their gaping suitcases and their maze of instruments with a ghostly glow.

Hoz walked forward and silently kneeled on the floor. After a few tense seconds and a small pattering of feet, he found his face licked by one of the dogs—the smallest one, judging from the tongue.

“Hey, Cerberus,” Hoz whispered, already feeling his heart slowing down. “Missed me?”

He put his cheek against the dog’s back, closing his eyes. The steady beat of Cerberus’ heart, combined with the oddly pleasant scent of dog fur and road trip dust, made Hoz feel less weightless. Behind him, he heard four sighs of relief.

“You think Liz’ll take offense?” Hoz spoke into Cerberus’ black fur, idly scratching the dog’s head.  

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Mits said. “She likes you too much for that.”

“Don’t worry.” He heard Jaymes say. “She’s definitely inviting us for another gig—and not just because she’s gone for you.”

Hoz chuckled hoarsely, lifting his head from Cerberus’ back. “Flatterer.”

“Well, God knows you need the ego boost.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Cerberus is the Latinized version of his original name Kerberos, which [means spotted in Greek](https://www.behindthename.com/name/cerberus). Hades is a dog nerd confirmed.
> 
> Come message me on my [tumblr](http://kaafka.tumblr.com).


	4. larded all with sweet flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the life of the witch and her daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: dysfunctional family

_"Oh, oh, got a little paycheck,_

_you got big plans and you gotta move_

_And I don't feel nothing at all_

_And you can't feel nothing small."_

**_—The Lumineers_ **

* * *

Flo never asked for much. As a child, Stevie drilled frugality into her bones, taught her the value of every crumb she consumed and every stitch she wore. Flo remembered how the lessons came out especially when they gardened together. Stevie had cultivated every plant with reverent fingertip and had allowed her hands dive without hesitation into the ground, letting the dirt and dust seep into her pores.  
  
Now, Stevie frowned whenever Flo did the same thing. Not with the flowers, of course. But any other plant than a blossom?    
  
“Flo! Come here!”  
  
Flo stood up, wiping the dirt from her knees and picking up her mini radio, which played a tinny rendition of an old Civil Wars song. She trekked forward to meet a displeased Stevie at the front of the garden.  
  
“Yes, Stevie?”  
  
“Turn that down, will you? It’s distracting.”  
  
Flo obediently killed the sound, cutting off the Civil Wars’ mid-chorus. _“I just wanna take him home—”_  
  
Stevie crossed her arms over her chest as she gave Flo a pointed stare. “I told you to pluck the tulips, not move onto the onions. They’re not ready yet.”  
  
Flo ignored the unsaid _you’re not ready yet_ and shrugged her shoulders. “I offered Mr. Harris onion juice as an apology for upsetting him.”  
  
Stevie’s eyebrows rose. “And he accepted?”  
  
“Yeah.” Flo said, tilting her head defiantly. “You’re not mad, are you?”  
  
“No.” Stevie finally replied, after a long silence. “No, of course not. Just be careful, ok? Picking crops usually falls in my area.”  
  
Flo fell into step with her mother, biting back a bitter retort of how she’d watched and learned to harvest from watching Stevie for years.  
  
When they entered the shop, Flo took her place behind the countertop and leaned back, inhaling the intoxicating scents that attacked her senses.  
  
“Getting your head in the clouds again?”  
  
Flo chuckled. “Very funny, Stevie.”  
  
She rolled her head from side to side, taking in the sight of the shop for the thousandth time. Earthly Delights had no grand interiors, but springtime always made it glow with an intangible energy. The walls, painted a faded aquamarine, held shelves and shelves of the newest tulips, the freshest daffodils, the most delicate sweet peas. Dried lily-of-the-valley twined in bunches hung the ceiling, spreading a delicate sweetness into the air. In the shop’s main window display, picturesque peonies nestled in the tin buckets Flo salvaged in the storage room. To her right, she sensed Stevie checking the new orchids; every so often, Flo would hear a rustle of leaves and a snip of gardening scissors. Flo finally looked at the center of the shop, nodding in approval of the centerpiece display she and Stevie arranged two days ago: a riot of lilac, viburnum, and jasmine spilling artfully from several weave baskets.  
  
The cheerful jangle of the shop doorbell snapped her out of her daydream. “Hello, welcome to Earthly Delights; how can I help you today?”

* * *

Flo stretched and sighed as the church bells began chiming six.  
  
“Chin up, Flo. It’s only half an hour left.” Stevie murmured, kissing Flo’s cheek comfortingly. Flo nodded and straightened her shoulders.  
  
When her mother entered the storage room, Flo carefully touched her cheek and sighed again. Stevie always thought working at the shop gave Flo little breaks from her daily delivery service. Frankly, they seemed pretty equal in Flo’s eyes. She saw the same people, pasted on the same artificial smiles required from anyone who worked in service. Flo liked one thing about the shop, though—the ability to ferret out the customers’ tastes. She memorized their preferences to know their general picks, but the presence of so many other blossoms in the shop often made them sway to other choices.  
  
The door bell pealed and Flo blew a few red strands out of her face.  
  
“Welcome to Earthly Delights; how may I help—?”  
  
“You know flower meanings, right?”  
  
Flo blinked. “Yes, ma’am?”  
  
The woman behind the countertop fiddled with a leather wallet. “What would you give someone if you insulted them without meaning to?”  
  
“I…” Flo trailed off, taken aback by the series of questions. It was clear this woman wasn’t a regular or a resident; no self-respecting town resident wanted meaning behind the flowers they bought. If they looked pretty, that crossed off all their requirements for a bouquet.  
  
The woman exhaled, running a brown hand through her locs. “Sorry. I’m just on edge today. What do you have that spells out ‘I’m sorry’ in flower language?”  
  
Flo’s curiosity rose, but she refused to ask more and instead reached down behind the counter to pull out a couple of hyacinths she cut the day before.  
  
“These generally mean ‘please forgive me’; would that work?”  
  
The woman surveyed the bouquet with a critical eye. “Yeah, that would, but I don’t think they’d look good in a vase.”  
  
Flo nodded; this woman knew what she wanted, and Flo respected those who thought about the meanings behind blossoms. “They’re usually seeded in large flower pots.”  
  
“Have any others that seem more table display instead of windowsill hangings?”  
  
For the next hour, Flo and the customer—Twigs, the woman said with a dismissive wave of her hand, as if the name didn’t sound like intrigue on the tongue—considered the available apology flowers. Cyclamens felt too final, violets more formal than necessary. White poppies, they decided, would make the receiver perceive disgust, and according to Twigs, that “may or may not happen, we don’t know.”  
  
Flo raised her eyebrows as she flitted from shelf to shelf. “Sounds more like a tug-of-war game than a relationship.”  
  
“Believe me, if it’s a tug-of-war, the other side’s pulling with all their might.” Twigs said with a snort. “How about those?”  
  
Flo’s eyes followed Twigs’ manicured finger, up to the highest shelf. When she saw the flowers, she shook her head. “They’re some of our best ones, but they’re definitely not for the apologetic.”  
  
“What do they mean?”  
  
Flo winced as she took a bunch of said flowers down. “Honestly? They mean outright refusal, and if anything, they only apologize that the receiver can’t be with the giver.”  
  
Twigs poked at one of the petals in the selected bouquet. “They’re pretty, though. And come to think of it, that meaning reveals a lot more genuine feelings the giver has.”  
  
“So you’re not the one apologizing?”  
  
“Oh no.” Twigs replied absentmindedly, now looking at the striped carnations with definite interest. “No, I’m buying them for a friend who needs to do some damage control from the other day.”  
  
“Ah.” Flo said, nodding. She seldom saw proxy flower shoppers in town; Twigs continued to surprise her more and more. “And this friend, do they need anything else in the bouquet besides an apo—well. Rejection?”  
  
Twigs’ fingers quickly opened her wallet and twisted a few crisp bills between her nails. “I’ll inform you when he does. God only knows what he’ll end up with. Is this enough?”  
  
Flo accepted the money and took the bouquet to wrap them up in cellophane. She stopped herself just in time to call out, “You want ribbon or twine for these?”  
  
“Ribbon would look more thoughtful.”  
  
“Damn.” Flo muttered, putting the twine ball back in the wrapping kit. “Just when we’re running out, too.”  
  
She hurried to the storage room and grabbed the last white ribbon off the coat hangar where they hung the shop’s decorative knick knacks. Stevie stopped her daily clean-up routine to stare at the bouquet in Flo’s hands. “Striped carnations?”  
  
“Newcomer.” Flo explained, quickly tying the flowers and cellophane together with a few expert twists. “Five percent for decoration, right?”  
  
Stevie’s shoulders tensed, but she gave a solemn nod. Flo rushed out of the storage room and handed the bouquet over to Twigs, her service smile already on her lips.  
  
“Thanks for choosing Earthly Delights; we hope to see you soon.”  
  
Twigs snorted as she took the flowers. “Oh, I think it’ll take more than one bouquet to handle this in the future.”  
  
She gave Flo a jaunty salute before walking out of the shop, carnations firmly gripped in her hands. Flo, fascinated, watched her cross the street and vanish behind the corner of the library.  
  
“She seemed interesting.” Flo heard Stevie say behind her.  
  
“Yeah, she did.”  
  
Stevie put a light hand on Flo’s shoulder. “Nice of you to open the shop ten minutes after closing time for her.”  
  
Flo closed her eyes. “She came in the shop before lockup. That counts, you know.”  
  
“Mm. Let’s close up before we have any new visitors.”  
  
Flo nodded, walking over to the front door. As always, the click of the lock turning into place echoed in her ears as she carefully flipped the large shop sign from OPEN to CLOSED.

* * *

They sat in the tiny living room upstairs, quietly listening to Rilo Kiley’s “Dreamworld” on Flo’s mini radio. She’d begged Stevie to allow her to have one, eventually saving up enough delivery tips to buy one from the Tune Place. The number of gleaming instruments and dusty music sheets had fascinated her, but the prices surprised her, and she remembered how intimidated she felt inside the place, how she felt the shopkeeper’s watery blue eyes wander across her cotton dress when she resolutely put down the money on the countertop. Flo never went back; she chose to seclude herself in the town’s Music Pavilion, a place she usually whenever she wanted to listen to her radio.  
  
Today, she knew she was lucky. Stevie hadn’t let her play the radio at home for weeks. Flo tapped her feet in time with the song as she sorted through the new seed packets they received in the mail. In the tiny kitchen, Stevie prepared dinner, bobbing her head to the song—one of her favorites, Flo noted. She knew the patterns just like she did with her customers; her mother tolerated the indie channel, even indie rock when she grew into a particularly good mood. Stevie rocked back and forth like a pendulum whenever the radio clicked over to a song she liked. Whenever she did this, Flo wondered where Stevie learned to move so hypnotically, to feel the music deep in her bones.  
  
_"She was the girl with a string around her neck,_  
_Came with the boy who could only give her less,_  
_It could be more if she learned to never expecting_  
_Now if she it's her and him and then a baby next."_  
  
Flo never missed how all of Stevie’s favorites mentioned heartbreak and disaster. She cleared her throat. “Dinner ready yet?”  
  
Stevie jumped in her place, caught. “Yes, yes, it’s ready. Set the table, will you?”  
  
Flo obediently walked over to the small tea table Stevie salvaged from the thrift shop. She kneeled and slipped a hand beneath it. Her fingers finally caught the wooden rectangle in the corner and she unlatched it to let the shining silverware fall into her hands.  
  
Stevie’s shadow loomed over her as she set down the final fork. Flo looked up to see her mother watching over her, tray in hand. The overhead light glowed harshly behind Stevie, throwing a halo around her head.  
  
Stevie sat down, setting out dinner in a neat arrangement. Sourdough bread—homemade, not the ones at Ralph’s that made Stevie’s nose turn up—drizzled with olive oil and vinegar. Two bowls of steaming tomato soup. Sunflower seeds tied in small drawstring bags. Flo sat on the other end of the table, waiting patiently for her mother to finish as Rilo Kiley sang on.  
  
_"See, I'm a man with a plan to use my hands, touch your nose, you're the girl who wanted more. Now a—"_  
  
“Shut that off.” Stevie said with a new sharpness in her voice; Flo quickly scrambled with the knobs on the radio. The song’s last notes vanished in the air, leaving a prickly silence behind.  
  
“So,” Flo said again, toying with the tomato soup in front of her. “Logan called the shop again.”  
  
Stevie huffed. “Funny. Not even a week after I told him to screw himself.”  
  
“Yeah, I told him to fuck off too, don’t worry.”  
  
Stevie’s mouth rose into a crooked smile. “After weeks of you insisting me to date him?”  
  
“That was before I found out he’s a narcissistic jerk.” Flo replied with a smirk.  
  
The rest of the night passed by in amiable conversation. Flo and Stevie bonded over the package of new seeds, the daily shop rush, the ridiculous orders that certain customers demanded.  
  
“Who thinks red roses for spring decor?” Stevie tutted.     
  
“Someone who clearly doesn’t give a shit about flowers in the first place.”  
  
Stevie let out a snort of laughter and Flo’s smile warmed. Her mother seldom laughed; every time she did, Flo swore she felt her heart grow ten times larger.  
  
“Well, it’s good for us that the last customer knew what she wanted.”  
  
Stevie’s laugh stopped. “Right. Striped carnations. You sure she’s a newcomer?”  
  
“Stevie, can you count the number of times a regular ordered a striped carnation bouquet, let alone asked for its meaning?”  
  
“Five for the first,” Stevie answered, counting off her thin fingers. “None for the second.”  
  
“Exactly. And what kind of person here would have a name as fascinating as Twigs?”  
  
“It’s not like your name isn’t the most traditional, either.”  
  
Flo stared at Stevie incredulously. “You’re making it seem like I named myself instead of you.”  
  
Stevie lowered her eyes to the table. “I didn’t.”  
  
Flo’s fingers twitched, almost making her choke on her bread. She swallowed slowly, feeling the chunk of bread slide down her esophagus. It seemed to stick in certain crevices in her throat, like it refused to let her speak.  
  
“That’s,” She rasped out. “That’s news to me.”  
  
Stevie nodded, biting her lip. “Believe me, I didn’t want a city for a daughter either.”  
  
Flo felt her pulse spike as she heard the first few drops of rain hitting the shop roof tiles. She blindly gripped at the edge of the tea table, letting herself exhale before she spoke again.  
  
“What was I called, then? Before—” She stopped herself just in time and shook herself. “What did you want to name me?”  
  
Stevie stared out to the balcony, eyes hazy. “The ferns need watering.”    
  
In dismay, Flo saw her mother closing into herself, her neck shrinking back like an old tortoise’s. She cleared her throat, trying not to sound too hoarse.  
  
“Stevie, it’s raining.”  
  
“Oh.” Stevie said, glancing outside. “I guess you can go to bed then.”  
  
Flo nodded, standing up shakily. Kneeling, Stevie claimed, helped the blood circulate through the legs. Good for your lower body, she said. That line reasoning led Stevie to buying the tea table, so they could kneel instead of sit at mealtimes. Flo certainly felt her blood pumping, but the sensation wasn’t in her legs.  
  
Stevie looked back at the table, lost in deep thought. Flo shook out the wrinkles in her dress and stared down at her mother one last time before she turned to the bedroom. As she prepared herself for the night, Stevie suddenly stood up and fled to the first floor in a blur of antique beads and ribbon, taking the steps two at a time. Flo stepped into her nightgown and dusted off her bedspread, trying not to inhale the scent of talcum powder. The only sounds came from Stevie doing her late night shopkeeping down below and from the old grandfather clock, pushed against the farthest corner from their two queen-sized mattresses. Both of its brass hands pointed at an embossed nine.  
  
Flo slipped under the covers, staring up at the ceiling above her. Her eyes traced the yellowed cracks in the stucco and she made herself count the number of cracks that reminded her of veins. When she got to twenty-six, she allowed her mind to wander.  
  
_I can count on my right hand how many times she let slip of Him._  
  
She shifted on her side, feeling the soft glow of the town’s night lights play across her skin. Flo stared out the window, relishing the look of the sky—studded with stars and the moon barely peeking out behind its cloudy blankets. After a few seconds, Flo pulled her own blankets over her head, wetting her lips nervously. She forgot to drink her nightly water; either she’d sound decent or she’d sound like a frog croaking, especially after the bread she choked down left a cloying layer flour and yeast in her throat.  
  
_To hell with it._  
  
She tentatively started an A scale, wincing whenever her voice wobbled. No water definitely left her sounding more hoarse than usual, but not enough that someone would mistake her with catching a bad flu. When Flo finished her scales, she took a small breath before she began to tentatively sing a Lumineers song, the one she heard two days on the way to the Harris household. She never understood why the Lumineers would sing a love song for a drowned girl, but she supposed they thought irony would draw more listeners in. John Everett Millais certainly thought the same, painting the same woman in a darkly beautiful light. Flo never liked that painting; every time she looked at it, she always thought the poor girl looked hauntingly like herself.  
  
As she began to enter the chorus, Flo’s mind whirred, thinking about Stevie’s disturbing revelation.  She carefully filed ‘named me’ to the few facts she knew about Him and internally evaluated her collection for the thousandth time. ‘Still alive’ always leapt to her mind first, because it still stung, an open wound she scratched at again and again. The others hurt less, but Flo had to close her eyes whenever she’d picture them. ‘Auburn hair’. ‘Likes cities.’ And finally, ’sung for a band’.

Flo started the song’s second verse as soon as she began to ponder over the most recent discovery. What did He have in mind, naming her after an old Italian city? A stop from his worldwide tour? Liking the Old Masters and Philosophers? Flo’s fingers curled; in a sick twist of events, she harbored a fascination for the Renaissance ever since she turned fourteen. Rebirth, regrowth, an ascendance of society—all of them reminded her of a phoenix, rising from the ashes.  
  
“Flo? Are you singing again?” Stevie’s voice floated up from the first floor, fearful and indignant.  
  
Flo hastily shut her mouth and bit her fist, refusing to allow any more noise past her lips. She already felt the teeth marks sinking into her hand and predicted the questions customers would ask.  
  
_“Did you hurt yourself, dear?”_  
  
_“No, the goose I sacrificed last night for the new moon showed some bite. Did you want hydrangeas or pansies, ma’am?”_  
  
Flo hummed the song’s coda under her breath; she never allowed a song to go unfinished, no matter the consequences. As she heard Stevie climb back up the stairs, Flo lowered her voice to a husky whisper, barely noticeable in the night. An expert decrescendo, something her old tutor helped her master the technique before Stevie caught wind and sent him away. She remembered the way he whistled impressively as he tested her vocal range.  
  
“Three octaves, D3 to F#5.” He’d smiled at her. “With more practice, you could make that range wider.”  
   
“I thought higher voices achieved better record deals.”  
  
“An impressive voice achieves record deals.”  
  
Just as Flo hummed the last note of the Lumineers’ song, she felt Stevie’s hands wrapping around her waist and her blood ran cold. She forced herself to breathe normally, sensing how Stevie’s fingers snaked to her throat to check if she truly stayed silent. After a few minutes, Stevie breathed out in relief and leaned back, apparently satisfied.  
  
“My girl.” Stevie murmured, brushing a hand against Flo’s still cheek. “Don’t ever leave.”  
  
_Where would I go?_

When Stevie finally fell asleep on the other mattress, Flo idly thought again of the Renaissance, how the Old Masters experimented and dared to break free of their social constraints, to herald forth a new era, a new life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, if you haven't guessed, the song that Flo's singing is The Lumineers' Ophelia. You can listen to it on the [official playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/i42bvxql03uiximrt1hi60hjx/playlist/7wUfYhCM7U5VmCEAK6JDrb?si=1Z9pRqaGR-2_p46SWO-QYg) I've made for this story, which is liable to change according to my tastes. 
> 
> I've also made a [visual moodboard](http://kaafka.tumblr.com/post/174058002467/moodboard-modern-day-hades-and-persephone-x) that summarizes the story so far, if you want to check that out.


End file.
